


stone the crows

by honey_wheeler



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Canon, F/M, First Time, Loss of Virginity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-16
Updated: 2012-05-16
Packaged: 2017-11-05 11:35:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/405952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honey_wheeler/pseuds/honey_wheeler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They’re sending him to the crows. The bastard says it’s his choice, he says he wants to go, but Ygritte knows they didn’t give him much reason to hope for any other life. She knows that Lady Stark is such a cold one that Jon Snow might think the Wall will be warmer. He’s wrong, but then he’s wrong a lot, and she’ll tell him so any time he asks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	stone the crows

**Author's Note:**

> For the kinkmeme prompt: _Jon/Ygritte - Ygritte is in service to Winterfell like Osha, and she loves tormenting Jon. When he declares he's going to take the black, Ygritte finds it too sad that he'll never bed a lady, so she makes it her personal mission to make Jon a man and change his mind._

They’re sending him to the crows. The bastard says it’s his choice, he says he wants to go, but Ygritte knows they didn’t give him much reason to hope for any other life. She knows that Lady Stark is such a cold one that Jon Snow might think the Wall will be warmer. He’s wrong, but then he’s wrong a lot, and she’ll tell him so any time he asks.

“It’s such a waste,” she says to his wolf when the beast comes nosing in the larder for scraps late of the evening. He knows she’s a soft touch for him, the only other thing around here as wild and out of place as she is. “He’s too pretty for it.”

“Who’s too pretty for what?” the bastard himself asks from the door, his form materializing from the darkened hall like a wraith. He calls Ghost to his side with a cluck of his tongue, but Ghost ignores him. Ygritte makes sure to give him an extra treat for that. Jon eyes her warily. He’s never quite trusted her, in a way that pleases her.

“ _You’re_ too pretty,” she tells him. “Far too pretty to go to the Wall.”

“I don’t see what pretty has to do with it,” he says, but his cheeks burn and he can’t meet her eyes.

“You wouldn’t,” she laughs. “You never did know anything worth knowing. Pretty boy like you could have been dipping his wick in all the girls and half the boys from here to the Gift.”

“But I’m-”

“I know, I know, you’re a bastard so you’ll get no bastards of your own. We _all_ know, sing me another tune, Snow.” If he were anyone else, she could never speak to him this way. She’d have to bow and scrape with all the rest of them. But Jon Snow’s never had a lick of sense when it comes to shoulds and shouldn’ts, and she’s glad of it. Her days would be far less bright without him to torment. Soon they _will_ be less bright, he’ll be leagues away, and she can’t pretend it doesn’t make her sad. But not quite as sad as the thought of him going to the grave unopened. He is surely too pretty for that by far. “You know, where I come from, bastard don’t count for nothing. It’s your own bloody, stupid honor that keeps you a virgin, and more’s the pity, I say.” He puffs up at her words, his cheeks growing even darker red.

“What makes you think I’m-”

“A virgin?” she supplies, grinning. “Are you telling me you’re not?” Ygritte advances on him, delighting in the way he gulps at the purr in her voice, the way he backs against the edge of the table behind him. “You telling me you’ve kissed a woman? Sucked on her teats? Gotten your fingers up in her cunt and made her come?”

“I…” he stammers. “I…”

“That’s what I thought. And a right shame. Bet you’d be good at it. With that mouth of yours…” Her eyes drop to the mouth in question. It’s open, his breath issuing strong enough to stir her hair, and his tongue shows pink when he darts it out nervously to wet his lips, those pretty red lips that could do so many things. A right shame indeed for such a pretty mouth to go unused up there with the crows, Ygritte thinks. A bloody fucking tragedy.

He yelps when she kisses him, when she catches that red lower lip between her teeth and nips. Yelps and then moans, the sound coming up from his chest like it pains him. “You can’t,” he says, “I can’t,” but his hands are on her waist, they band about her until his thumbs almost touch, and she can feel him already growing hard where her belly brushes against him.

“And who’s going t’stop us?” she asks, looking in his eyes from so close that her own just about cross. “I know you think about me. You don’t have to just think. You should fuck a woman before you vow to never touch one again, don’t y’think?”

“Ygritte,” he says, and it’s this perfect needy whimper, and that’s answer enough for her. She licks along his lower lip, skims her tongue over his teeth and pushes it inside to touch the roof of his mouth. He tastes like plums and brandy and venison, he tastes good, and she strokes his tongue with hers, coaxes it into her own mouth so she can suck on it. 

It’s been a while since she’s been with a man – not many men to steal a woman proper around this place – but still her hands are deft at unlacing his breeches and slipping inside to measure him. He jerks and shakes at her touch and she’s sure it’s the first time his cock has felt any hand but his own. There’s a satisfaction to it, to knowing no woman has ever been here but her. And if he has his way, no other woman after her ever will. It makes her too sad to think on.

“You’re a big boy, aren’t you?” she asks, knowing it’ll make him give that whimper again, the one that sings along her nerves to spark heat in her cunt. She wants his hand there, she wants him to feel that heat. He whimpers again, but this time in protest as she pulls her hand from his breeches, only to offer a heartfelt groan of gratitude when she takes up his hand and works it beneath her skirts to cover her over the smallclothes they make her wear in the name of being proper, for whatever that's worth. “You feel that?” she asks him. “You feel how I’m hot and wet for you, Jon Snow? You feel how I’m soaking through my smallclothes for you?” He groans again and his hand cups instinctively, he pushes his fingers against the barrier of the cloth that separates them. She wants it gone, wants his skin on hers, wants his fingers up inside her cunt to make her scream, so she pulls her knife from her belt – a small knife, fit only for cutting meat – and laughs when he pulls away and his eyes go wide.

“What,” he starts, but she stalls his words when she flips her skirts up to her waist and puts the knife to her smallclothes, cutting through the fabric and ripping the stitches with a satisfying tearing sound. The linen flutters to the ground, she kicks it away, and his eyes are still wide but in a different way now, and she doesn’t have to put his hand on her this time, he does it on his own and she thinks it feels as good to him as it does her by how his eyes expand into blackness and his throat works on a moan.

“Nothing that warm on the Wall, Jon Snow,” she breathes, working her hips against his hand, squirming until his fingers are buried within her and his wrist presses in just right for her to rub against it, gasping and quivering all over. He’s kissing her neck now, hot open-mouthed kisses that are sloppy and sweet. She tilts her head to encourage him, pulls at his shoulders to get him closer. “Think of how warm I’ll be when it’s your cock in there instead of your fingers.” That gets her a bite, his teeth closing convulsively on the spot where her shoulder curves into her neck. She’s never been bitten before. She likes it.

He doesn’t object when she works his breeches down, nor when she pushes him to straddle one of the benches stored in the larder. She throws a leg over the bench, her feet set outside his, and she holds up her skirts, lets him look on her. He might be staring at the sun, that’s how dazed and rapt he seems. It makes her smile – he really is a lovely boy, serious and sweet, for all she taunts him – and she runs her fingers over herself, dips them inside, feeling herself clench around them when he flushes and moans and swallows hard, his eyes never leaving her hand. She can’t remember the last time she was so wet. Her fingers are sticky when she pulls them away. They leave a glistening trail over his pretty, perfect mouth before he closes his lips around them without hesitation and sucks her off her fingers, his eyes closing like it tastes sweeter than honey to him. She feels her cunt throb in response and she knows she needs him inside her soon or she might make a bloody fool of herself.

“You ready, Jon Snow?” she asks in a whisper, and he opens his eyes to fix on hers, nods and strains a bit towards her mouth. She lets him kiss her, tangling her tongue with his as she takes his cock in hand, strokes it and thumbs at the sensitive spot under the head before lowering herself and guiding him into her.

It takes him a bit to find a rhythm; at first he bucks against her, wild and erratic, and if she hadn’t already known his inexperience, this would have been the telling of it. It makes her feel something she’s not used to, a heavy sweetness near her heart. She curls her hands around his nape, murmurs soft words to him, easy, easy, slow, that’s it, Jon Snow, that’s it. He adjusts quickly – she knew he’d be good at this – and she nibbles at that mouth, licks it like something sweet, rides his cock in his lap and holds his sweet, pretty face to her teats.

“Ygritte,” he says, over and over, “Ygritte, please.”

“Yes, Jon Snow,” she tells him, “yes, anything, anything at all, even if you don’t say please.” It makes him laugh and she feels it vibrating up from his cock through her cunt, through all the places he’s pressed to her. She aches and she wants, she wants everything from this sweet boy who’s giving away so much, so she takes his hand, works it down between them to press at her, showing him how to circle and rub just right, gods, he does it just right. He comes before she does, jerking up into her and biting at her neck again, immediately kissing the spot and laving it with his tongue as if in apology. It takes her a bit longer; she writhes against his hand and thinks of him sucking the taste of her cunt from her fingers, and he holds her when she finally shakes apart into a thousand shards.

They breathe together for a long while, their bodies cooling, blood ticking through their veins. It occurs to her to think that they’re in the larder, the door is unlocked and anyone could come in, but then she sees Ghost out of the corner of her eye, his body stretched at the threshold to block the door, and she relaxes. Jon’s got his head laid on her teats like a little boy. Wondering at how she’s gotten so soft, she strokes her hands through his hair, soothes him and coos at him and thinks again on how sad that he’d go to the crows rather than think himself a burden here.

“At least now you’ll know what you’re missing,” she says out loud, and he gives this sad little laugh against her, his breath stirring the collar of her tunic.

“I don’t know how good that is,” he says.

“If you’re not sure how good it is,” she says, deliberately misreading his meaning, “then I must not have done it right.” He laughs, nuzzles up under her ear, his warm breath making her shiver and curl towards him.

“Maybe you should show me again,” he suggests, and she can hear the delight at his own daring in his voice, can hear the barely leashed amazement. Oh, the things she could show this boy if only he weren’t about to go. But then, maybe all he needs is reason to stay.

“Maybe I should,” she agrees, warmth pooling low in her belly again. “So you really know what’s at stake.” And then he’s shutting her up with his mouth and neither says anything again for a good, long while.


End file.
